Chapter 5
Dominic's microphone hit the floor with a deafening thud.
Three hundred heads turned.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there—red dress burning like a flame in the center of the room—letting him see me.
Letting him doubt his own sanity.
His lips moved. No sound came out.
Then—survival instinct kicked in. He laughed. Picked up the mic.
"Apologies, everyone. I thought I saw... a ghost." Another practiced laugh. "Grief does strange things."
The crowd murmured sympathetically. Champagne resumed.
But I'd seen his hands trembling.
Roman guided me toward the terrace, one hand firm at the small of my back.
"He saw you," Roman said. Not a question.
"Good." I removed my mask, letting the night air cool my burning cheeks. "Let him lose sleep."
"You're playing a dangerous game, Vivian."
"I died three days ago. Danger is relative."
His eyes flickered—something raw, quickly buried.
"Don't say that."
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the night.
"Well, well. Roman Kessler with a mystery woman?"
We turned.
A woman in emerald silk approached—tall, angular, smile sharp as broken glass.
Sin score: **58**.
Dominic's business partner. Serena Whitmore.
"Introduce me?" She extended a manicured hand, eyes raking over me with predatory interest.
Roman didn't miss a beat. "My fiancée. She prefers privacy."
Fiancée?
I kept my face neutral, but internally—WHAT?
Serena's eyes widened. "The Roman Kessler? Engaged? This will be the headline of the century."
"Then I trust your discretion," Roman replied, tone leaving zero room for argument.
She retreated—but not before I caught her pulling out her phone.
Within the hour, whispers would spread.
Perfect.
If Dominic thought I was dead—let him also hear that Roman Kessler had a fiancée who looked eerily familiar.
Let paranoia eat him alive.
We left through the service entrance. In the car, I turned to Roman.
"Fiancée?"
He didn't look at me. His jaw was tight.
"Cover story. Nothing more."
"Interesting choice of cover."
"Would you prefer 'hostage'?"
I bit back a smile. "You're deflecting."
"And you're pushing your luck."
The car fell silent. City lights bled across the tinted windows.
I studied his profile—sharp, severe, beautiful in a way that felt almost dangerous.
Zero.
How did a man build an empire this vast, this feared—with a sin score of zero?
"Roman."
"Mm."
"What did my grandfather's 'arrangement' actually involve?"
His fingers tightened on the armrest. Almost imperceptible.
"He asked me to protect you."
"That's not the whole truth."
A long pause.
"No," he said quietly. "It's not."
He didn't elaborate. And something in his tone told me—not yet. Don't push yet.
The next morning, Dominic made his move.
He called my father—Henry.
I listened through Roman's wiretap.
"Henry, we have a problem. Someone at the gala last night... looked exactly like Vivian."
"That's impossible. The coroner confirmed—"
"I KNOW what the coroner confirmed. I'm telling you what I SAW."
A pause. Then Henry's voice—low, oily, calculating.
"Even if she somehow survived... she doesn't know anything. She's always been—"
"Stupid?" Dominic's laugh was ugly. "She married me, didn't she?"
My father laughed with him.
I closed my eyes.
Sin score 74.
He'd sold his own daughter. Let his stepdaughter and son-in-law orchestrate the murder.
And laughed about it.
Roman's hand covered mine—warm, steady.
"We take him down too," he said.
I opened my eyes.
"All of them. Every single one."
That afternoon, Dominic hired a private investigator.
Within 48 hours, the PI would confirm: the body was missing. No death certificate had been officially filed. Hospital records showed anomalies.
He'd know I was alive.
The clock was ticking.
"Phase three," I said. "We go public."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "You want to announce your resurrection?"
"Not announce." I smiled. "Perform it."
---
Three hundred heads turned.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there—red dress burning like a flame in the center of the room—letting him see me.
Letting him doubt his own sanity.
His lips moved. No sound came out.
Then—survival instinct kicked in. He laughed. Picked up the mic.
"Apologies, everyone. I thought I saw... a ghost." Another practiced laugh. "Grief does strange things."
The crowd murmured sympathetically. Champagne resumed.
But I'd seen his hands trembling.
Roman guided me toward the terrace, one hand firm at the small of my back.
"He saw you," Roman said. Not a question.
"Good." I removed my mask, letting the night air cool my burning cheeks. "Let him lose sleep."
"You're playing a dangerous game, Vivian."
"I died three days ago. Danger is relative."
His eyes flickered—something raw, quickly buried.
"Don't say that."
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the night.
"Well, well. Roman Kessler with a mystery woman?"
We turned.
A woman in emerald silk approached—tall, angular, smile sharp as broken glass.
Sin score: **58**.
Dominic's business partner. Serena Whitmore.
"Introduce me?" She extended a manicured hand, eyes raking over me with predatory interest.
Roman didn't miss a beat. "My fiancée. She prefers privacy."
Fiancée?
I kept my face neutral, but internally—WHAT?
Serena's eyes widened. "The Roman Kessler? Engaged? This will be the headline of the century."
"Then I trust your discretion," Roman replied, tone leaving zero room for argument.
She retreated—but not before I caught her pulling out her phone.
Within the hour, whispers would spread.
Perfect.
If Dominic thought I was dead—let him also hear that Roman Kessler had a fiancée who looked eerily familiar.
Let paranoia eat him alive.
We left through the service entrance. In the car, I turned to Roman.
"Fiancée?"
He didn't look at me. His jaw was tight.
"Cover story. Nothing more."
"Interesting choice of cover."
"Would you prefer 'hostage'?"
I bit back a smile. "You're deflecting."
"And you're pushing your luck."
The car fell silent. City lights bled across the tinted windows.
I studied his profile—sharp, severe, beautiful in a way that felt almost dangerous.
Zero.
How did a man build an empire this vast, this feared—with a sin score of zero?
"Roman."
"Mm."
"What did my grandfather's 'arrangement' actually involve?"
His fingers tightened on the armrest. Almost imperceptible.
"He asked me to protect you."
"That's not the whole truth."
A long pause.
"No," he said quietly. "It's not."
He didn't elaborate. And something in his tone told me—not yet. Don't push yet.
The next morning, Dominic made his move.
He called my father—Henry.
I listened through Roman's wiretap.
"Henry, we have a problem. Someone at the gala last night... looked exactly like Vivian."
"That's impossible. The coroner confirmed—"
"I KNOW what the coroner confirmed. I'm telling you what I SAW."
A pause. Then Henry's voice—low, oily, calculating.
"Even if she somehow survived... she doesn't know anything. She's always been—"
"Stupid?" Dominic's laugh was ugly. "She married me, didn't she?"
My father laughed with him.
I closed my eyes.
Sin score 74.
He'd sold his own daughter. Let his stepdaughter and son-in-law orchestrate the murder.
And laughed about it.
Roman's hand covered mine—warm, steady.
"We take him down too," he said.
I opened my eyes.
"All of them. Every single one."
That afternoon, Dominic hired a private investigator.
Within 48 hours, the PI would confirm: the body was missing. No death certificate had been officially filed. Hospital records showed anomalies.
He'd know I was alive.
The clock was ticking.
"Phase three," I said. "We go public."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "You want to announce your resurrection?"
"Not announce." I smiled. "Perform it."
---